The Imagineer

The morning orb shifts and shines, light rays rob the heavy skies of the dark

He snaps his fingers and the star splits, spilling into His sclerae, spans of white turn to gold.

Pupils grow hot and spit fire at anything He deems a slipup, His world cannot be tainted with a mark

Or disorder; His subjects know better now, they are His to own and do as they are told.

His words are clouds, climbing up and solidifying their shapes, to be dropped in phases with a bark

His palms are iron, crafted with antediluvian devices, each hit pulls from His people a psalm of old.

He cares for His creations, make no mistake, but they require a scare to spark

Their flames and to root themselves. A gust should be a breeze, tugs should be taps, the realms outside can be controlled,

But if they ever presume this applies to domestic deeds, He will remind them He is the Supreme, and no one can wear the face of an anarch.

He is their sun, their soul, their sire, with the power to make them rise or fall into the cold.

Afternoon air slides the saffron sphere from your master, laying it on your lap as you sit by the stream

The primordial taught you His ways and now you know how to sway,

Yet the gold has modified, now silver; but still housing more than a sliver of the Supreme

So, your irises have heat that hardly hurry to hate when your globe grows grey

For your reproductions’ palest petals only need your beam.

Your glare can make them regal, their lives brighter when they obey

And what is pulled from your skin, must behave or sink, a tactic that may seem extreme

However, your replicas only need to fear the leap, then it is easier to hear the plea to follow your dream.

You are the General, see how you enlarge your seas to drag your offspring in? You refuse to develop now that you hold the day.

You are the son of the sun, parroting His parts and tuning His traps, and just like Him, you need to sustain the regime.

The ball disappears when evening enters, the satellite materialises, shaking off resent as rain

Several words from the god and the general wash off, my right hand reveals the ones that still live in my chest.

Silver has made way for bronze, and this does not make me a saint, but I refuse to see anyone as a stain

My eyes hold hearths, homely heat, and if my place starts to wane, we can start anew before it fails as a nest

For I am not the sun or the sea, I am the earth, my children cradled in my core, a heart that will always sustain.

Coming from a part of me but not a form of me, not to be possessed

I will foster softer shades as I walk the terrain

Planting odes to my descendants as one does, saplings that stand, knowing not one grows with the guise of a guest

My work calls me to reimagine, for you see I am the Imagineer and the ones after me can never be mundane

It all begins with me breathing life into beings that are Earth-blessed.